LITTLE NICKS' ALL OVER THE PLACE

Intrepid higher education reporter "Satchel" Olsen will tie the knot Saturday in Vermont, U.S.A. While I wish the couple the best of luck, I'm thankful I won't be in attendance this wedding-heavy season. I've ushered, I 've groomsman'd and I've been a audience member (and witness if ever the union was called into question) at two more. I just need some time off from other people's special days.

Ostensibly to wish Nik well on the eve of his departure, I met him and the brothers Freamon downtown. Trying to buy a round, I ran into the same old jam: the bartenders at this hippie spot simply will not serve. Me. I do not know why. The guest of honor ended up buying after I left the room in disgust. Later a balding man who runs a new restaurant upstairs was roped into a conversation with my boozy reporter pal, who wanted the dish on the new eatery, Little Nic's on the East Coast. Sitting stonefaced at his side, I brought up the shoddy service each time I was asked for comment until the man excused himself and returned with six fresh Shut-up Frosties.

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The kid across the street goes by Nick. Or Nik or Nic. I finally picked this up from a shout conversation about lawn watering with his mother. Now I can toss in his actual name instead 'man.' Or 'dude' or 'buckaroo.' It's just nice to have the option, especially if I get him to wate when I'm out of town, like his mom suggested.

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